


The Knowledge of the Noldor

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [25]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Llamas, elves like children, elves like to sing, elves sing a lot, knowledge, silly rhymes, silvans sing nonsense, tension between types of elves, weird elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4984594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas takes time out from discussing how to train a standing army to sing to Eldarion. And Glorfindel helps.</p>
<p>Written for Teitho contest, prompt "Knowledge" in which it placed joint third.<br/>(surprisingly).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Knowledge of the Noldor

_“The llama is a pretty bird,_   
_its feathers white as snow,_   
_and everywhere the elflord went,_   
_the llama was sure to go._

_The llama is a friendly bird,_   
_it never runs away,_   
_and when the elves have sung to it,_   
_then it will surely play.”_

And Eldarion looks up at me, his eyes wide, and smiles.  
So I carry on.

_“The llama is a tuneful bird,_   
_it singeth in the rain,_   
_and everywhere the llama sang,_   
_the elves would come again._

_The llama is a foolish bird,_   
_its head is full of eels,_   
_and if you tell it anything,_   
_its raucous laughter peals.”_

Yes. My Gimli may snort, but all little ones like to be sung to.

Look.

Eldarion is smiling, clapping his little hands in time to the tune.

 

_“The llama is a wise old bird,_   
_it knows all there is to know,_   
_it sits upon a mountain top,_   
_and shelters from the snow._

_The llama is a happy bird,_   
_it flits from bough to bough,_   
_but no llama ever smiled as much_   
_as this elf smiles now.”_

I think it should be Naneth really, not just ‘this elf’, but – for Eldarion, that will have to do.

_“The llama is a pretty bird –“_

I start again, but am interrupted, as Aragorn crosses the terrace towards us. He is not alone, and I find I am glad it is not one of his Gondor Men with him – they seem, I have found, to think it strange that one whom they persist in describing as Prince, and Warrior, can enjoy so small a child. As though wars were not fought to preserve such joys.

“Another song, Legolas?” Aragorn smiles, and I shrug, because, yes, I am an elf, we sing, “you seem to have an interminable store of them, songs for little ones.”

“I am old enough to have watched plenty of elflings in my time,” I say, “Silvans pass their babies around easily, and we like to remember the old songs.”

Then I remember my manners, and incline my head to his companion,

“My lord Glorfindel,” I say.

He smiles, and then a frown of puzzlement,

“Legolas. But – that song – your audience becomes impatient; how does it go?”

I look back at my charge, who is now chanting quietly,

“Le-las, llama, Le-las, llama, llama, Le-las,” in that way that small and persistent elflings – and it seems, mortals – do,

and begin again,

_“The llama is a pretty bird,_   
_its feathers white as snow,_   
_and everywhere the elflord went,_   
_the llama was sure to go.”_

And Eldarion and I laugh at each other.

But apparently my song does not please all my hearers.

“A llama is not a bird – it has no feathers – where did you learn this – foolishness?”

I look up into the scornful blue eyes of Glorfindel,

“It is a Silvan rhyme, it means little – a llama is not anything – at least, nothing I ever knew of – there is probably a grain of truth somewhere in it, but so well hid – it matters not, it is just a children’s rhyme.”

He shakes his head, 

“No, no, you would not know, I daresay, but – there are llamas. In the West, in the south of Valinor. They are a mountain creature. Like – “ he thinks a moment, “like a donkey perhaps. Or a goat. They are artiodactyl ungulates. They are not birds, and they do not sing. Or climb trees. Nor do elves follow them. I think the Teleri use them as beasts of burden, sometimes.”

I shrug,

“It is just a pretty song for elflings – children,” I say, “it does not matter.”

“Of course it matters. If you are going to teach a child lies, it matters. Listen when someone who knows tells you – listen and learn – and change your song, or sing another.”

“Why? He is not going West, he is a Man. What matters it to him?”

“What matters – it matters because – because your words are a lie. A pretty lie. And you are refusing to learn, refusing knowledge, guidance.”

“I am refusing to change a Silvan custom, which is perfectly good, purely on the word of an arrogant Noldor,” I say, and suddenly we are glaring at each other, and almost shouting – we would be shouting, were it not for the child on my lap – and all the ancient resentment of my Silvan people for his race, all the bitterness of Sindar for Noldor, all the deeds done and not done well are remembered.

And, I daresay, on his part, all the foolishness, the dithering and dallying, the wandering away, the times we have not followed their strict orders, their plans, all that is remembered also.

Perhaps for him – for him above all – there is a desperate homesickness, a longing, a desire to have that Westward shore spoken of correctly.

But I only think of that later.

Now – now we glare, and bristle like cats, and it is as well for the child that Aragorn has learnt his skills of diplomacy so well, and steps in to calm us both, to turn our words aside and bring peace between us.

Which, in his own way, he does by – by scooping Eldarion onto his own lap, an absent-minded kiss placed on his forehead; by ignoring our contention, and instead speaking as he perhaps originally intended, asking for our thoughts on the training of his army. Before he allows either of us to speak, he is careful to drone on at length about the current position, the customs, the problems which beset him, the – all the tedium of such day-to-day matters.

And – when Glorfindel answers – I remember that he, Noldor and arrogant as he is, has given many years – many, many years – to just such matters. For no reason, at least, none that I know, other than a belief in this world, in the importance of ordinary people.

It all seems a bit – grim – in front of so small a child. But what do I know of the daily grind of parenting? Perhaps one has to carry on in front of them, if they are not to be relegated to a nursery, to the care of others.

Such things are beyond my experience.

The training of soldiers, however, is something I do know. But as the discussion drags on, we have all of us forgotten – or underestimated – Eldarion. He waits quietly, sucking his thumb and watching our faces, until Aragorn is called away by his steward. Then, once more on my lap,

“Sing, Le-las, sing?” he drags at my braids, and – and what elf could ignore him, or tell him to wait?

Neither I nor Glorfindel.

But I hesitate.

“Llama?” he prompts, hopefully.

Again, I hesitate, and I look at Glorfindel, unwilling to reopen the argument.

This time he shrugs,

“It was a pretty tune,” he says, and then, slowly, 

_“The llama – which is not a bird,_   
_it cannot sing at all,_   
_and if you try to make it fly,_   
_then it will surely fall.”_

He looks at me doubtfully, hopefully, and I – I laugh. Yes. Why not?

“It makes a nice end,” I say, smiling, “the sort of jest which pleases Silvans. I will add that verse, if you like.”

He grins, relieved – almost as relieved as Aragorn will be, I think – I suppose a fight between the representatives of two elvish lands would be embarrassing for him.

“Come here, Eldarion,” he says, and I pass the little one to him, he lifts him up, and looks very seriously at him, “I will teach you a song Legolas does not know. One I taught your Ada, long ago – I wonder if he remembers it? Can you listen, and copy me?”

And – and of all things I have not expected to see, it would be the lord Glorfindel, renowned warrior, seneschal of Rivendell, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin, Balrog-slayer, sitting in the sun, singing a nonsense rhyme to a small child, and very solemnly teaching him the hand-actions.

_“Happy llama,_  
 _Sad llama,_  
 _Drinking too much coffee llama,_   
_Super llama,_  
 _Drama llama,_  
 _Big fat chubby llama,_  
 _Moose, Khamel, Fish!”_

I like that one. 

By the time Aragorn comes back, I know it, Eldarion knows it, in his own way, and we are perfecting our rendition.

Glorfindel’s fish-impersonation has to be seen to be believed.

Perhaps the knowledge of the Noldor is not always harmful.

Although I do wonder what coffee is.

**Author's Note:**

> khamels, pronounced camels, come from Khand, of course.
> 
> (I am pretty sure hobbits have coffee, so it seems reasonable that Glorfindel, who lives in Rivendell, knows Bilbo, and has travelled all over that area - including Bree, I am sure, and many, many pubs - would also know about coffee. But I doubt the elves in Mirkwood do.)
> 
> With grateful acknowledgement of my own llama-enthusiast. Glorfindel's song is, I believe, somewhere on youtube, with actions.....although I am sure the elves perform it better.


End file.
